Trinity: Feathers and Fire Book 9

by Shayne Silvers

  I shrugged. “I mean, you could call me instead,” I suggested. “If you don’t like texting…”

  They blinked in unison. Then they blinked again.

  “Right. Good talk. I’ll see you guys later,” I said. Then I closed the Gateway, leaving me alone inside the bank. I spun in a slow circle, admiring the beautiful architecture and antique decor with the gilded sconces and deep red, polished wood. Nate had said it was called the Vaults—a bank for Freaks to stash their gold. I smiled, nodding to myself. Then I took a selfie next to the illusion breaking floor and security statue, checked to make sure my smile was acceptable, and then I made a Gateway for myself.

  I forgot to inform the tellers they were free to go. Sue me. That sounded like a Nate problem.

  41

  I stepped out onto lush warm grass, looking up at another mansion entirely. Dorian Gray’s estate looked like a Bond villain’s retreat compared to Nate’s mansion. I kicked a red Solo cup into a pile of more plastic cups and counted over a dozen empty glass bottles of liquor and beer, grimacing distastefully. Loud music was thumping from within the building and I saw a pair of topless coeds splashing each other in a fountain and giggling maddeningly.

  I sighed, wearily, realizing my last-minute decision to quickly and stealthily scope out Legion’s other place of interest was not going to be as cut and dried as I had hoped. I guess it made me old to assume a party might die down by early afternoon. From the looks of it, this party had never stopped.

  Some might think this looked suspicious—to have Legion visiting such a place and to find evidence of a never-ending party. Those people simply didn’t know Dorian Gray very well. Or at all. On the contrary, everything I’d seen so far was par for the course—I’d just hoped to be surprised with a bare modicum of sensibility.

  The fact that Legion had come here wasn’t all that surprising, either. Dorian Gray was friends with everyone, so if anyone might know where to find the rest of the Seven Sins for Legion, it would be Dorian Gray. I didn’t sense any nefarious blood sacrifices, but I did see two guys licking a tree and murmuring excitedly back and forth about the fact that every enlightened person knew trees communicated through sap—it was akin to a person’s saliva.

  More importantly, there was a guy peeing on the other side of said sacred tree, power-washing the trunk with freshly bio-filtered Bacardi, judging by the glass bottle he was barely managing to hold onto. He forgot to pull his pants up all the way before stumbling onward in his life’s grand adventure.

  This was also the reason I hadn’t chosen to call for backup before stopping by. It only served to make me look pathetic when my bodyguards saw there was nothing more dangerous than someone potentially spilling their beer bong on me or asking me an offensively stupid question three times in a row before forgetting what they’d been doing before bumping into me.

  I made my way across the lawn, not bothering to sidestep around the dozen or so drunken idiots scattered across the lawn like struck bowling pins. Some were sleeping, some were making out, and a few were even outright doing the dirty. I stepped on a girl’s hair, three hands, and I even used one girl’s lower back—who was on all fours for a reason I will let you imagine yourself—as a stepping stool. The guy working behind her didn’t even noticed my drive-by, taking her surprised squawk as encouragement for his efforts.

  My boots didn’t sense any demons as I climbed the steps and reached the front door. It was cracked partially open, and there were none of the flamboyant door greeters Dorian usually had for his more…dignified events. At the front, anyway. Dorian’s life creed was much like a mullet—business in the front, party in the back.

  But he’d skipped the facade this time. The scene so far looked more like someone’s parents had left for a week and the pop-up party had gotten wildly out of hand. Police were inbound, but the remaining guests were the party crashers who had long since dropped the oft-repeated lie that they knew the host.

  I kept my eyes peeled and my hands at my sides, ready for immediate violence in the event that any of these drunks was actually a Sin in disguise, waiting to catch me by surprise. I entered the foyer to find a sea of writhing, topless bodies bumping and grinding to house music with enough bass to make the walls vibrate and my skin tingle. The air was a cloud of smoke and laser lights swiveled back and forth in time with the beat, reminding me of Pink Floyd’s The Wall laser light show.

  A middle-aged woman, plumper than was typical for Dorian’s employees, bounced towards me with a beautiful, soul-deep smile like I was her long-lost sister. Her pale gray eyes were inviting and genuinely jubilant, perfectly complementing her iron gray hair. Thankfully, she was not topless, so I didn’t feel like a prude.

  “WELCOME!” she shouted over the music, shoving a woven basket brimming with party favors into my arms. I accepted it on reflex and the woman was suddenly pointing an SLR camera with a foot-long lens at my face, taking at least thirty pictures of me in less than five seconds. This close, with that long of a lens, I surmised that she was actually documenting my brain activity through my flesh and bone. “MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME, DEAR!”

  Then she was dancing away, welcoming someone behind me inside after their restful nap on the front lawn.

  I studied the contents of my gift basket as I twisted and shoved my way through the crowd, heading for the main living area where I hoped to find Dorian or any other familiar face. It was full of random party favors, baggies of numerous drug samples, body paint, glitter, and even funky glasses and sound makers like this was a New Year’s Eve party. I grunted, shaking my head as I searched for a place to get rid of the contraband. I slipped through a wide entryway into the living room where Dorian typically hosted his parties, and I saw a crowd of strangers focused on having a good time and ignoring everything beyond the walls of the host’s home. They looked tired but unwilling to admit it, consuming more substances to keep the party going—to keep avoiding the responsibilities and duties of their real life outside.

  I found a relatively safe and clear space to stand near the back of a couch and a long table. I glanced up at the second-floor railing, studying the epic, masterful art covering the walls. I didn’t see Dorian’s infamous self-portrait, but I recognized many others. After I’d broken the illusion he’d used to hide his one true weakness—break his portrait and cause serious harm to Dorian—he’d moved the painting elsewhere. I didn’t see Dorian leaning over the railing, watching the party below—as was his typical custom. When he wasn’t in a back room with a few frisky attendees, anyway.

  A young woman was bent over the table next to me. Most of the table was covered in drug paraphernalia, plates of food and discarded drinks and cups. Strangely, the young blond woman was fiddling with a standing microscope that had at least six different adjustable lenses on swivels. I paused, curiously, watching as she plucked a large glass marble from a bowl, holding it up to the light with a distant smile on her rosy cheeks. Her fingers began to glow, and the glass slowly altered to a rich orange color as she transferred her heat to it with magic. Like a glassblower at an artisan craft fair. She began stretching it out and folding it in on itself like it was putty. Soon, I could actually feel the heat waves emanating from her work. Sweat beaded on her brow and I watched in sheer fascination, juggling my basket of drugs, glitter, stickers, and funky glasses, as the woman’s fingers danced across the glass with masterful purpose.

  I felt the tendrils of magic dancing to her command, but I’d never heard of anyone using magic like this before. After a few minutes of deft work, I gasped to see that the glass in her fingers now looked like a tiny gazelle the size of a matchbox car. She set it down and watched as the heat evaporated, leaving the clear, incredibly detailed and lifelike, glass gazelle in a prancing pose. She leaned closer and exhaled a measured breath directly onto the figurine.

  The gazelle hopped, made a cute little honking sound, and then it trotted across the table, maneuvering around a plate of fresh fruit to dive head-first into a small mound
of marijuana sitting on a silver platter beside a large bong. The gazelle began nibbling at it, honking excitedly. I cringed, unable to decide which was more disturbing—the fact that the gazelle had trotted past the plate of sliced strawberries in favor of the ganja or that the toymaker had brought the cute little creature to life with a drug addiction.

  “Carla’s amazing, isn’t she?” a woman asked from directly beside me, making me flinch. I swore she hadn’t been there a minute before. “My name is Ginny,” the woman who’d given me that basket in the foyer said, and then she pointed her giant SLR camera at my face from three inches away and took a dozen pictures.

  Thankfully, the flash wasn’t on or I would have been blinded. “Um. Yeah, Ginny. We already met and you already made a dossier on me,” I said, pointing at her camera. “And gave me a welcome basket of highly illegal contraband,” I said, lifting it to show her.

  “Oh, dear,” she giggled. “So many people here that it’s hard to keep track of you all. Don’t want anyone to feel left out.” She peered into my basket and pointed out a little baggie of blue and pink crystals. “Try those, first,” she said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “It’s even better with friends!” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, winking at me.

  I gave her a brittle, hollow smile, pretending not to notice the three-way make out session two feet behind her. I was fairly certain one of them was a werewolf or a very furry human. “Right.”

  42

  Ginny grinned at the ganjazelle, snapping an inordinate amount of pictures of the figurine. “Naughty little fuckers, eh? Carla is a toymaker—”

  “The Toymaker,” Carla corrected in a warning growl, crushing a new marble to dust between two fingers.

  “Of course, Carla,” Ginny said with a bubbly giggle. “My mistake.”

  I arched an eyebrow at the temperamental Toymaker, since she’d made it sound like a title. Crushing a glass marble to dust with two fingers? I hadn’t sensed any magic. Carla nodded stiffly and scooped up a third marble, dismissing us. I noticed half a dozen other figurines on the table, all meandering about. A tiny glass elephant was using his trunk to drink from a puddle of alcohol dribbling out of a spilled glass and a monkey was squatting and throwing tiny glass beads at passing partiers—much to their dismay since they spun around, expecting a life-sized culprit rather than the feces flinging figurine.

  I turned back to Ginny rather than thinking too long on the antisocial Toymaker. “So, you help Dorian run the place?” I asked. “Have you worked here long?”

  She nodded, excitedly. “Oh, yes. I’ve been Mr. Gray’s house manager for thirteen days!” she said, acting as if she were closer to reaching her pension than she was to finishing a new employee orientation. Less than two weeks?

  My eyes widened a hair, but I forced myself to nod happily. “Wow. Well, you’re doing a great job,” I said, smiling at her overly cheerful demeanor. Ginny wasn’t the typical come-hither type of employee Dorian normally hired. He usually chose employees based on their beauty, their exoticness, and their…extracurricular talents, planning ahead for those moments when he needed them to put in some overtime.

  Ginny remained standing beside me, snapping dozens of pictures of nothing in particular around the room. When she turned back my way to snap a few more pictures of Carla’s newest work in process, I cleared my throat before something else managed to distract her. “Do you know where I can find—”

  “Carla made the Guardians for the Temple family in St. Louis,” Ginny said, leaning forward to get an extreme close-up of the crap-hurling monkey. “The griffin sentinels at their family estate, Chateau Falco. Have you ever been?”

  I almost dropped my gift basket in surprise, but I managed to play it off as adjusting my grip. I hesitated to answer, not knowing if I wanted to admit any familiarity with Nate Temple to strangers. Especially not when I’d just left Nate’s home. “I’ve heard of them,” I said, carefully. “I also heard about stone statues that guard the Vaults and can help break illusions. You know, the Freak Bank?”

  The Toymaker paused and slowly looked up at me. “What did you say your name was?” she asked in a slow, clipped tone, eyeing me suspiciously. I hadn’t known she was actually listening to me.

  “Rose,” I lied, smiling. “I’m looking for Dorian. He wanted to speak with me about something.”

  Carla eyed me up and down with an appraising smirk at my tight white jacket and pants. “I’ll bet he did,” she said with a chuckle before focusing back on her work—a tiny lion with a full, flowing mane. As I watched, she picked up a tiny paintbrush and made a few delicate strokes on the lion’s mane. She pulled away with a satisfied nod, set the brush down, and then checked her work with the magnifying contraption, flicking the lenses back and forth with deft fingers. Then she made a hum of approval and leaned forward, almost kissing the lion. Again, she breathed on it like she was starting a fire from kindling. I gasped to hear it let out a tiny roar and then see it shake its head back and forth before sniffing at the air and focusing on the ganjazelle behind it.

  The lion stalked after it and then pounced. I let out a sharp breath as the lion tore out the ganjazelle’s throat with a faint crunching sound. Tiny drops of blood sprayed up from the wound, and then the lion began to eat. The ganjazelle managed a few dying honks before it grew still.

  I turned to see a slow, devilish smile stretching across Carla the Toymaker’s face.

  No more arts and crafts for me.

  I turned to Ginny, who was snapping pictures of the lion’s feast with a bright grin on her plump cheeks. “I really need to speak to Dorian. He’s expecting me.”

  Ginny straightened with a shrug. “He should be out back, playing corn hole with the boys.”

  Of course he was. Ginny did not hear the full hilarity of her own phrasing, but Carla smirked. I managed not to actually growl at my blatant waste of time. “Thank you, Ginny.” I spotted a stack of business cards on the table, cringing at the tiny ganjazelle blood spatter on the corner. It was for Carla’s services. I leaned forward to grab one, smiling at Carla. “Can I take one?” I asked her.

  She waved a hand, vaguely, not making eye contact. “Go right ahead, Rose,” she said, emphasizing my name with an amused smirk. “I do parties.” Then she laughed—a very dark, wicked sound. I pocketed the card, convincing myself she wasn’t as creepy as she seemed. Best case scenario, I could hire her to make centerpiece decorations for my godparents’ wedding. Or I could try to get some information out of her about the statues at the Vaults.

  I made my exit, winding back and forth through the sea of bodies, swatting a few overeager hands, and denying a dozen offers of drinks. As I moved, I began to get an overwhelming urge to get the hell out of the house and outside for some fresh, non-intoxicating air. In my haste, I bumped into a man, almost bowling him over as I lost my grip on the basket and spilled it all over the ground. Like piranhas to fresh meat, the crowd was suddenly clamoring over the party favors, but I was focused entirely on the man I had bumped into as he turned around to blink at me, blearily.

  “Callie?” Dorian Gray croaked, sounding like he hadn’t had a drink in weeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his eyes were dazed and droopy, and he had an uncharacteristic slouch. “Did you arrive with Claire and Kenai?” he asked, frowning. “Or was that yesterday?” he mumbled to himself, scratching at his head.

  “Claire is here?” I demanded, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him. I almost cringed to feel how unsteady he was. How hollow and worn out and frail.

  Dorian nodded. “She was, but I haven’t seen her in…well, a while, I guess. I feel like I haven’t slept in days,” he wheezed, snatching at a drink from a passing platter. He guzzled the champagne and then grabbed another flute to dump on his head. “Ah, much better.”

  I opened my mouth to press him further when my boots suddenly began tingling. I froze, realizing they were pointing towards the door. I was running for the door before I consciously chose to do so, ignoring Dorian’s baffled sho
uts from behind me. I flung it open and snarled as I came face-to-face with one of Wrath or Legion’s familiar red demons who had been climbing up the steps.

  My fangs popped out and I hissed at him, causing him to trip and stumble back. I dove for him and sank my fangs into his neck as I sank my claws into his gut. His blood hit my body like an adrenaline shot and my skin began to tingle. I heard everyone behind me scream and begin to panic. I pulled away from the demon, shoving his lifeless body down to the ground as I savored the feel of his blood coursing through my body, igniting my veins with energy. I slowly turned to face the crowd through the open doorway. They all looked like they’d just woken up from a frighteningly realistic dream.

  “Your party is over,” I snarled.

  I turned back to the circular driveway to see Phix, of all people, and a man fighting half-a-dozen of the same red demons. I counted several already bleeding out on the ground and more people running and screaming to escape the bloodbath.

  “My party is just beginning,” I growled.

  And then I was running towards them.

  43

  I drew my katana rather than using my claws and stabbed the first demon in the lower back, severing his spine before he even knew I was there. He screamed as I kicked him down to the ground, searching for another.

  Phix pounced and tore through one demon, literally ripping him in half, before hurling his upper and lower body at two other demons in a shower of blood and gore. But I froze in disbelief to see that I recognized Phix’s ally.

  Quentin, the prick Nephilim I’d left for dead at the park—the one Xuanwu told me had gone missing. Now that I was focusing on him, I realized I could sense him. The same sensation that I had mistaken for a desperate need to get out of Dorian’s house. It hadn’t been the crowd itself, but Quentin’s nearby proximity calling to me.